again not only by the stream, but by the entire surface of the soil which was completely saturated by torrents of rain that had fallen during the night.  Just after this, and nearly three miles from the inn, the Wye suddenly burst into the valley from the left, and rushing beneath a bridge, flung itself into the little river.  The latter, conscious that although its volume was greater, its strength and impetuosity were less than those of the marauder, quietly resigned itself to its fate, receiving the name and acknowledging the authority of its lord and spouse; and thenceforth, we found ourselves wandering along the banks, less known than those less renowned, of the classic Vaga.

The sameness of the scenery continued for five miles further, till on entering the hamlet of Llangerrig, consisting of a few huts of the meanest description, and an old church, of which a view is annexed, trees began to add their interest to the picture.  The valley, however, was wide, the trees small, and the river, notwithstanding its receiving here another accession, was still insignificant.  By degrees, however, as we proceeded, the hills became closer, and the massiveness of their forms lent a certain degree of grandeur to the scene.  These again disappeared; and the hills returned: and the Wye as before ran brawling through a commonplace valley.  A series of vicissitudes went on till the hills, assuming the character without the magnitude of mountains, threw themselves wildly together, and we found ourselves in a savage pass, the steep abutting masses of which were in some cases formed of grey and naked rock.

The river here is occasionally almost choked up with stones and fragments of rocks, which must either have rolled from the heights into the bottom of the valley, or been uncovered in their original beds by the action of the water.  Here opens (in our judgment) the first of the numerous picturesque views presented by the Wye.  The spot is marked by the accession of a tributary stream, which is crossed by means of a bridge.

After getting out of this gorge, the scenery becomes softer and more commonplace; and at three miles nearer, the vista is terminated by the little church tower of Rhaiadyr, painted against a misty hill at some distance beyond.

In the time of the Welsh princes, there was here a fortress of some importance, of which no vestiges remain.  It was erected, we are told, by Rhys, prince of South Wales, in the time of Richard II., and burnt down in 1231, by Llewellin ap Jorwerth.  The little town itself is modern, and consists principally of two streets intersecting each other at right angles.  The name, which is in full Rhaiadyr Pwy, means the Fall of the Wye, but is no longer applicable, the cataract having been almost levelled in 1780, when the bridge was erected.  From this bridge the view of the river is exceedingly fine, as will be seen by the annexed engraving; although all the remnant of the waterfall is the plunging of the stream over a low ledge of rocks.  The town itself has a good deal of character.  It is decidedly a Welsh town; and notwithstanding the commingling that must have taken place in the races, it possesses that foreign aspect which is so exciting to the curiosity.

This appearance, however, is still more evident in the next place at which we arrive, Builth; but the traveller must not be in a hurry to get there.  The valley of the Wye, during the fourteen miles which intervene, presents a continuous series of picturesque views, sufficient of themselves to make the reputation of the river.  The stream rushes the whole way through a singularly rocky and winding bed, bound in by lofty and fantastic banks, and these by hills, naked or wooded, barren or fertile, of every variety of form.  One of the most remarkable of the latter is the Black Mountain, which is posted directly in front, and fills up the valley, as if to guard the pass from the further progress of the Wye: but our wandering stream sweeps abruptly round its base, and escaping by a narrow defile, pursues its triumphant way towards Builth.  One of those pictures is imitated in the annexed engraving, and it will not be difficult to find the identical spot chosen by the artist.

For more than half the distance the road runs close by the side of the river; but on reaching a few houses called Newbridge, we diverge a little, and do not come near again till we have travelled a distance of nearly five miles and approached the town of Builth.  The pedestrian, however, cares little for roads; and, rejoining the river at will, he finds the series of views continued—sometimes grand, sometimes beautiful, sometimes picturesque, sometimes absolute gems of pastoral repose.  The river increases visibly before our eyes; and at length, when near Builth, it rolls along, still foaming, still brawling, but in a stream of considerable volume.  Its principal tributaries between Rhaiadyr and this place, are the Elian, the Ithon, and the Yrfon; the last of which is celebrated by the defeat of Llewellin in 1282, which took place at the spot where the little river is crossed by a bridge, just before it falls into the Wye, above Builth.

This part of the country, however, is completely secluded.  There never was, so far as we know, a public conveyance between Rhaiadyr and Builth; and at the latter town, at this season of the year—although it is still early in October—the traveller will find no means of communication with the rest of the world, except for those who journey with post horses, and those who make use of the locomotive powers of their own limbs.

Builth is finely situated, its narrow streets rising in irregular terraces on the side of a hill on the right bank of the Wye.  The houses are as Welsh as can be, and have a primitive, old world look, that has a great charm in our eyes.  The town is approached by a stone bridge of considerable length; at the end of which, on the left hand, are some mounds of grass and ivy, which conceal the remains of a castle supposed to date from the eleventh century.  All, however, is conjecture as regards this castle, which was a small fortress, with a keep of forty yards in circumference, surrounded by a ditch, and defended towards the south by two trenches.  It was repaired in 1209, by Gilbert, Earl of Gloucester; after the death of Llewellin, it became an English fortress; and in 1690, was accidentally destroyed by a fire, which at the same time consumed the greater part of the town.  Builth, however, is older than its castle.  It is set down by the learned as the Bullæum Silurum of the Romans; and various druidical remains in the neighbourhood carry back the ken of the antiquarian to a still more remote epoch, which is lost in shadows.

It was in this neighbourhood, as we have said, that Llewellin, the last of the Welsh princes, was defeated and slain in 1282.  Tradition relates, that while at Aberedw, a short distance down